


Of New Years...

by eevilalice



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Dom/sub, Holidays, Humor, M/M, Masturbation, Oral Sex, Romance, bottom!Draco
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2011-07-09
Updated: 2011-07-08
Packaged: 2017-10-21 04:35:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,268
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/220971
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eevilalice/pseuds/eevilalice
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After an unexpected Christmas Eve encounter, Draco does his best to avoid Harry. But Harry won’t let him. A sequel to “Of Bravery and Happy Trails” but can be read as a stand-alone.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. ...and Civil Tongues

The little Snitches whirred around and among the branches of Draco’s miniature Christmas tree, jostling tiny fairy lights and occasionally skimming the magically twinkling star at the top. He closed his eyes and listened to them zing this way and that, inhaled the crisp, clean scent of the fir, its needles, sap, and bark.

New Year’s Day. He supposed it was time to get rid of it. Even if The Boy Who Lived had been the one to give it to him, one of a small handful of Christmas presents he’d received here with the Order of the Phoenix at Grimmauld Place. It certainly wasn’t safe for his mother to send him anything, or him her, what with his location carefully guarded to protect him from the wrath of the Death Eaters he’d betrayed. Death Eaters like his father.

So, there’d been a rather pathetic, largely depressing effort to include Draco in the holiday gift-giving on Christmas Day: Molly Weasley had knit him some hideous socks, gloves, and a hat, likely in an effort to shut him up about being cold all the time. Really, it wasn’t his fault he’d run from the Death Eaters in summer and been unprepared for fall and winter.

The Ginger twins gave him a box of sweets from their shop, making a crack about Draco’s mum sending him chocolates at school on a weekly basis, but Draco had the good sense not to eat them this time around; he remembered the chaos those two had caused fifth year with their products. He’d been civil about the gift, though, much as it pained him, thanking them politely and mumbling something about not wanting to squander the sweets at one go.

Granger had handed him a book, some ancient tome on potions he was pretty sure his family already had a copy of in the Manor’s library, but he offered a small smile and flipped through a few pages perfunctorily, smile growing genuine (and amused) when she insisted it came from Ron as well. Weaselbee looked distinctly red in the face, freckles nearly disappearing, as Granger elbowed him and he nodded sharply in confirmation. _Right,_ Draco thought. _If Weasley had a hand in this I’ll spell my hair black._

Finally, Potter had set a bizarrely wrapped gift on the carpet in front of Draco, leveling him with an unnervingly steady gaze and murmuring, “Happy Christmas, Malfoy.”

Ah, then Potter wanking them both into oblivion on Christmas Eve _hadn’t_ been Draco’s gift.

Draco’d felt his face flush at the recent memory and hurriedly lowered his no doubt panicked eyes in order to set about unwrapping the strange present. It was the last time he’d made eye contact with Potter for going on a week, and, now, reclining on the bed in his room, he could barely believe he’d had the ability for those few fleeting seconds then. Stupid Potter and his stealth gazing and stealth gift-giving.

He’d taken as quiet a breath as possible to steady himself, hating that he even had to do so, and over Potter, and tugged at the ribbon tied around the base of what appeared to be a pyramid. Carefully, he removed the loosened paper—gold with red bells because apparently _everything_ had to be Gryffindor around here—and blinked mutely at the small tree, its phalanx of tiny Snitches taking flight with a charming hum, the fairy lights and treetop star sparkling delicately.

“You said you always had a lot of Christmas trees at the Manor, so I had Hermione help me Transfigure a branch from ours and make the decorations. I thought you might like to keep this up in your room until New Year’s or something, since you spend so much time there.”

 _I’m going to kill him,_ Draco had thought, snapping his gaping mouth shut, teeth clacking. _I’ll do the Dark Lord’s job for him, rejoin my parents, and all will be right in the pureblood world._ It was the first time Draco’d ever considered the idea that Potter’d been sorted into the wrong house; clearly, this was a crap Hufflepuff thing to do, so touchy-feely and-and _thoughtful._ How dare the wanker (Draco grimaced at his own choice of insults) _care_ about him—and in front of other people!

He’d swallowed a sarcastic remark about Potter wanting to remind him that Draco had never once caught the Snitch while playing Quidditch against him and instead offered as sincere-sounding a “thank you” as he was capable at the moment, given the thick cloud of nonsensical but potent outrage that bubbled up in his belly. He’d raised his eyes as high as Potter’s mouth before quickly focusing on his tree again, the other boy’s chapped lips reminding him of how the Gryffindor had bitten them as he’d brought them both to climax the night before.

And that’s how Draco had spent the rest of the morning, sitting and watching the Snitches and fairy lights on his personal Christmas tree, gazing at the star which pulsed with its bit of magic, figuring it would be rude to adjourn to his room as usual, until they were all called in to an early Christmas dinner where Draco sat and ate silently, grateful when it was time for yet another Order meeting to which he was not invited.

Because then he could finally, _finally,_ take his tree upstairs, find some solitude, have a bath…and wank his brains into liquefaction.

He’d told himself it would just be that once, the one time he’d allow the images of his little tryst with Harry bloody Potter to run across the back of his eyelids, starting with that first glimpse of happy trail, then skipping to Draco pinned, the feel of Potter hard against him, the shock of it, the frottage, kissing, moaning, stripping, his fellow Seeker’s hand wrapped around their cocks, shafts held tightly together as Potter wanked them, Draco coming, and then, most deliciously filthy of all, Potter straddling his abdomen and shooting onto his chest, neck, and chin.

Then he’d have gotten it out of his system, so to speak, the images and desire for a repeat performance floating in the bathwater along with his spent semen. After all, Draco was highly skilled at disciplining his mind; in fact, “discipline” was too strong a word it came to him so naturally. Like the time he’d inexplicably begun fantasizing about Goyle, which was unacceptable. So he’d found a hulking beater from the Ravenclaw Quidditch team, seduced him, and bribed him. Troublesome Goyle fantasies gone, problem solved. Draco expected his similar…difficulties with Potter to go much the same. Which is to say they would end, through the sheer power of his will.

Except they hadn’t.

The morning after Christmas found Draco in his bed, wanking frantically, the sound of Potter’s moans, the heat and slickness of his hand, the green eyes squinting down at him without glasses but still devouring him—these and more rushed unbidden to Draco’s mind as he arched off the mattress, toes curling as he orgasmed with a jaw-clenched whimper.

The next five days passed much the same, with Draco rising early, casting a Silencing charm, wanking, cleaning up, going down to breakfast (he’d learned that Potter liked to sleep in relatively late), returning to his room to read, stare at the tree, write letters to his mother he knew would never be delivered, lie on his bed or sleep, then possibly wanking again before supper, only to have his bath and wank once more as he settled in for the evening. Potter and his cohorts, especially Granger, had attempted to talk with him the little he was downstairs, but he kept his responses short, though polite, and escaped to his room again as soon as would not be deemed rude.

With such a schedule, he’d managed quite successfully to avoid having a single conversation with his former nemesis.

Draco had vowed, just that morning upon waking, cock stiff as ever, that with the New Year there would be a new routine. One that would _not_ include wanking to images of Harry Potter. And there he’d sat, wondering if he could touch himself at all anymore _without_ thinking of the Gryffindor, deciding he’d better not risk it, and taking the most frigid, wilting of cold showers, emerging disgruntled but determined, confident in himself and the added incentive the New Year gave him.

Only he’d missed his usual breakfast time. What if Potter was down there? Eating? Sipping tea with those bitten lips of his? Brushing crumbs away with those hands…

And just like that, ridiculously, Draco’s traitorous cock had sprung back to attention, tenting the towel wrapped around his waist. _Fucking bloody hell. Was he going to have to_ live _up here?_

Thankfully, sometime after Draco had dressed, refusing to touch himself and thinking of repulsive images like Hagrid in garters, he’d heard Moody’s booming voice calling some “strategy” meeting to order, and he’d been able to sneak down to the kitchen, grab a few things to quiet his voracious stomach at least, and return to his room unnoticed.

Now here he lay, staring at the bloody tree and hoping the House Elf would still bring his tea without having been asked at breakfast. He’d summon the thing, but it seemed to have specific instructions regarding him, and he didn’t want to ruffle any Order of the Phoenix feathers. He was an outsider yet, not to be trusted with much. And where would he go, what would he do if forced to leave this place, leave Potter and his band of righteous goody-goodies?

They probably thought he was plotting something up here, sequestered alone for hours on end. How long before someone . . .

 _Knock knock knock._

 _Shit._ Draco scrambled to sit up in bed, grabbed the potions book Granger’d given him, opened it to a random page halfway through. At least the knock had been quiet, almost tentative. Not an “about to throw your arse out” sort of pounding.

“Yes?”

The dark wood-paneled door creaked open and Potter stepped through, a small, though pleasant enough smile on his face. He nodded in greeting, dark hair unkempt as ever. “Hi, Malfoy. Um, don’t mean to bother you, but um,” he turned, closing the door behind him, then shoving his hands in his pockets before facing Draco again and continuing, “You don’t leave me much choice.”

Draco’s heart thudded in his chest, his stomach, his throat. He hadn’t known there were three in there, ready to thump around. Why in bloody hell had Potter closed the door? Draco swallowed thickly, palm sweaty against the page he was holding open, and searched every corner of his mind not filled with naughty thoughts of Potter doing naughty things to him—or of himself doing naughty things to Potter—for something to say. It was a short, fruitless search.

Instead, he clapped the book shut, sat up fully, and swung his legs over the side of the bed, arching a quizzical eyebrow and hoping his silence would be read as impatience or nonchalance. Anything but the terror it was.

Potter shuffled his feet. “Wearing your new socks, I see,” he said rather lamely, gesturing at Draco with one shoulder.

Draco’s trouser legs had ridden up, revealing the thick, woolen socks Mrs. Weasley had made. He bent to adjust his cuffs and stood, unaccountably embarrassed. “It’s cold,” he stated, throwing his arms wide as if Potter had just made the dumbest observation in the world, thus forcing Draco to give a similarly dimwitted explanation in return.

Potter sighed, gripping his thighs in his pockets. “You could start a fire,” he suggested.

“I know,” Draco replied somewhat snidely, looking out the frost-dusted window. “But only my feet were cold.”

“Right,” Potter mumbled, and Draco risked a glance at the Gryffindor only to find him eying the way the blond now hugged himself, arms folded across his chest.

The Golden Boy took a few steps forward and paused when Draco immediately, reflexively backed up, maintaining the distance between them. Another exasperated sigh, and Potter removed one hand from his pocket to run it through the thick, black mop he called his hair. “Look, Malfoy, was it not…did you not…like it?”

 _Fuck yes,_ Draco thought before the panic of Potter broaching the topic seized him. There went his three hearts again, and his lungs seemed to be having a hard time keeping up. He stared hard at a spot on the wall just over Potter’s shoulder, waiting for his mental discipline to kick in. He could manage one syllable, couldn’t he?

Having worked up the courage—or, perhaps, sense of pride that’d been missing since his father had been sent to Azkaban the year or so before—to answer Potter with a resounding “No” and put an end to this whole ridiculous, masturbatory nonsense, Draco had barely opened his mouth before the other boy rudely decided he had more to say first.

“I mean, I know you liked part of it at least, or you wouldn’t have, you know,” Potter shoved his hand back in his pocket, flushing.

“Come?” Draco supplied with a smirk, happy to witness his former rival’s Gryffindor courage crack in the face of such frankness. It gave his own waning fortitude just the boost he needed, and he unfolded his arms, taking a stride forward and meeting Potter’s suddenly shy, green gaze for the first time in a week. Draco shrugged casually. “It was all right.”

Making eye contact had been a mistake, for Draco watched as Potter’s diffidence abruptly evaporated, shifting first to confusion, then incredulity, before the green of his irises darkened fascinatingly in aggravation. “‘All right’? Having someone—let alone your nemesis for the past six years—shoot his load all over you strikes me as the sort of thing one would feel strongly about in one direction or the other!” he grit out, voice rising with nearly every word. He whipped his wand out of his back pocket and cast a Silencing charm, followed by Colloportus on the door. Taking another step closer—only about a foot between them now—he tucked his wand away and glared at the blond, hands clenching at his sides.

Draco swallowed drily, moving to back away but coming up against walls on either side, cornered. Of course it had been better than “all right”—what had he been wanking over this past week, and, face it, what was he going to continue to wank over for who knew how many days to come?—but he wasn’t about to admit that to Potter. Exactly where would that get him? It’s not like he… _fancied_ him or anything. And even if he did, the moment Draco hurt his big, dramatic Gryffindor _feelings,_ the Slytherin would likely be blamed and mistrusted by the entire Order all over again. Shoved out the door and left to fend for himself. He’d be captured or dead in less than a week.

Regrouping, Draco assumed the arrogant posture he thought of as his trademark, leaning one shoulder against the wall and looking around the room disinterestedly. “I can see you’ve imagined some elaborate drama going on between us, Potter, but it was just a bit of fun, as far as I’m concerned.”

“Which in no way explains why you’ve been going to such great lengths to avoid me,” Potter countered smartly.

“What?! What, is that what you think?” Draco nearly forgot for a moment that the foolhardy git was right. He pushed off the wall, standing toe-to-toe with the scruffy-looking Saviour of the Wizarding World, and glared down his nose at him. He was only a couple inches taller, but it was better than nothing. “I’m not avoiding _anything,_ Potter! What do you expect me to do? I’m the bloody black sheep around here, in the House of Black, no less! And no matter how many Christmas presents you give me, that’s not going to change!”

“You know, for a Slytherin, you’re a terrible liar, Malfoy,” Potter declared, not backing down. He narrowed his eyes, appearing to consider something. “Or, maybe you’ve been waiting for me to provide the opportunity for a fight. Is that it?” Somehow, he managed to get closer without touching Draco, one foot wedged between the blond’s. Draco could feel his warm breath on his face, smelled a hint of peppermint. “Is that what you need to ‘get in the mood’? Is that why you’re so civil to me all the time downstairs? Don’t want to get hard around company?” Potter’s voice had gone low and gravelly, and he stepped into Draco, moving a hand to his waist, mouth to his ear. “How long have you been getting off on our mutual animosity, all our little scraps and skirmishes?”

Draco shivered as Potter’s breath caressed the length of his body from the inside, the cool fire of it contrasting with the searing heat of the hand at his waist. It took every ounce of his meager willpower, every last shred of his dignity, not to moan, beg the boy to touch him more, or tackle him to the ground and rip his ill-fitting clothes off.

As it was, his nervous energy manifested in a small chuckle, brittle and painful to his own ears, but potentially devil-may-care to Potter. “I must say it was _satisfying_ to stomp on your face at the start of sixth year. The sound your nose made when it broke…yes, that I liked,” Draco purred. In truth, he’d never found Potter attractive until he’d been trapped with him in this blasted house. He really, honestly couldn’t stand the boy all through school, the favoritism Dumbledore clearly showed him, the whining about his fame, all the Quidditch wins, the inferiors he associated with. Although, a few times he’d allowed himself to wonder what it would have been like if the Gryffindor had accepted his offer of friendship, been Sorted into Slytherin, or both. They could have ruled Hogwarts together…

“There you go again, trying to provoke me. Shameless,” Potter hissed in his ear and, with a Seeker’s speed, gripped the inside of Draco’s arms at the elbows and shoved, pinning him.

Draco gasped as his head thunked dully against the wall behind, stars shooting across his vision, and Potter closed in, mouth wetly, clumsily assaulting his own. His cock had been interested in the proceedings from the moment the other boy had stepped into the room, but now, in response to actual physical contact, it hardened fully, straining insistently against his fly.

 _Bloody fucking—how did this--_ Draco mentally stuttered as Potter pressed forward, maneuvering one thigh between his, bodies now flush, the buttons on the Gryffindor’s shirt digging into his ribs. At least he knew how much the presumptuous prat wanted this—well, of course he did; Draco was a right good fuck, and Potter didn’t even know the half of it—judging by the erection the blond could feel practically bursting through the other teenager’s trousers. The Slytherin couldn’t help but rotate his hips, hungry for the friction, and Potter made a noise of approval, running his tongue along the roof of Draco’s mouth before finding and tangling with the blond’s.

Just as Draco began kissing back in earnest, Potter pulled away, releasing his arms and removing the divine heat and pressure of his thigh and cock. Taking off his glasses, he tossed them on the bed behind, and Draco once again marveled at the sight of those large green eyes peering at him with no barrier between. The Slytherin pulled in his lips, saliva from the messy kiss cooling around his mouth, and stared, curious, eager, and a touch scared, as Potter tilted his head like something had just occurred to him.

“You didn’t give a gift to anyone. You didn’t even make an effort, did you? Well I’m going to make a gift of you, Malfoy.” And Potter’s hands found Draco’s belt, undid it, savagely darkened eyes never leaving his as the Gryffindor lowered himself to his knees.


	2. ...and Simpatico Snitches

Paralyzed with lust, panic, fear, glee—someone should figure out how to bottle this, he thought dimly—Draco watched, strange ripples of white noise in his head, while Potter tugged down his trousers and pants, freeing his, of late, more than attended to cock, which was nevertheless presently heavy and throbbing, practically pushing itself into the other boy’s Quidditch-roughened hands. Potter broke eye contact to grip the base of Draco’s shaft and leaned forward, lips parted, the blond giving a strangled groan before his tongue even made contact with the flushed head, still unable to believe this was really happening, that this wasn’t just some insanely vivid fantasy from which he’d wake to find himself, own hand on his prick, sheets sticky with come.

But Draco could not possibly have dreamt, imagined, or hallucinated the jolt that ripped up his spine at the first swipe of Potter’s pointed tongue, nor the soft slide of parting lips as they stretched around the head and moved down his length. The Gryffindor was clearly an amateur—Draco hissed at the brief scrape of teeth—but, still: hot, wet, sucking mouth. _Harry Potter’s_ hot, wet, sucking mouth.

He would not turn into another fawning fanboy. Some bent version of Colin Creevey. Or, just, Colin Creevey. He _would not._

Potter’s tongue wriggled against the underside of Draco’s cock, tracing the pulsing vein back up to the head and swirling around it like a lollipop. The blond gasped, one shaking hand automatically falling to clutch at the perpetually tousled black hair, and watched as Potter’s lips distorted into an awkward, face-stuffed smile before his mouth descended on Draco once again, eating up more of his length than the last try. This time, a low whine of appreciation issued from the back of Draco’s throat, and Potter actually _chuckled,_ the vibrations of it rippling pleasantly along every last nerve of the Slytherin’s prick. Draco squeezed his eyes shut and let his head fall back, hips unconsciously straining forward to feel as much of that engulfing, wet heat as possible.

Instead, a heavy arm stretching across his abdomen and a sweaty hand on his hip firmly pushed him back against the wall, holding him there, Potter’s other hand squeezing sharply at the base of Draco’s swollen shaft in warning. The blond cried out and bit his lip, peering down as Potter’s cheeks hollowed, the cavern of the Gryffindor’s mouth tightening, Draco’s hand tightening in the thick, black locks in response. His head fell back again, eyes closing and, forgetting himself already, the Slytherin automatically made to thrust his hips forward, only to meet the unrelenting pressure of Potter’s grip on him, the arm pinning him to the wall behind. He moaned; he _liked_ it, pushing against something unyielding, The Boy Who Lived’s lust-fueled strength, his stubbornness.

The hand not madly clutching at Potter’s mop of inestimably clutchable hair slid down the wall behind Draco as he scrabbled for purchase, for something to squeeze, shred, or simply grasp for dear life, but his sweat-slick palm encountered nothing but smooth, ancient wallpaper, not even one of the many peeling patches evident around the noble House of Black. The best Draco could do was curl his toes in his blasted Weasley socks, pant, and groan as Potter continued his increasingly competent assault. Beyond his own noises and the obscene slurping sounds of the Gryffindor’s mouth working away at him, the room, the whole house, was silent, except for that layer of white noise buzzing in Draco’s head.

Wait. It wasn’t inside his head.

Draco let gravity pull his chin to the side and opened his eyes. On the table beside the bed was Potter’s gift to him, the little Christmas tree with its twinkling fairy lights and whirring Snitches. A new heat burned at the center of his chest, momentarily immobilizing his diaphragm, and his hand slackened a bit in Potter’s hair, instead palming the back of his skull, rubbing distractedly as he tried to catch his breath.

“Please… _please._ ” The words rose up from beneath Draco’s sternum, where the soft parts began. He didn’t even know what he was begging for. “Potter…Harry…” He couldn’t get his breath. The Snitches were dashing among the lights, he could swear they were speeding up, matching the rush of the blood in his ears and his cock, and now his pleas were a wordless, high-pitched sort of keen as Potter _swallowed around him,_ and he thanked Merlin blow jobs appeared to be one of those few things the otherwise dimwitted Gryffindor was naturally skilled at.

Draco was going to die; this was going to kill him. If his balls grew any tighter they’d twist themselves off. He had to come. But this couldn’t end. _Fucking hell._ It was _existential._

The hair beneath his hand had grown damp with sweat, and he looked down for the first time in minutes.

And Potter looked back, green eyes merciless, lights from the Transfigured tree glinting in them, lips red and shining, and, with a shout, Draco came, endlessly and too fast, shooting thickly and gratefully into the waiting sheath of Harry Potter’s mouth.

Gasping, mouth gaping, eyes slitted with exhaustion, Draco slid down the wall and collapsed into a disheveled heap on the floor, bare bottom resting on the tattered rug beneath, legs awkwardly tangled in his trousers. He watched, dazed, as Potter crouched before him, casually wiping away a trickle of semen from his chin with the back of his hand.

 _He must have—he must have swallowed the rest,_ Draco realized through the fog of afterglow. _Merlin, Potter swallowed my come. My come is inside--_ Not bothering to finish the thought, he closed his eyes, hands resting on his shaking thighs (they _had_ been tensed and under strain for some time), and caught his breath, the Snitches a pleasant hum in the near distance.

Yes, pleasant. Calm. Until a pair of hands roughly hauled Draco back up onto his feet and fairly tore his one decent jumper over his head and off his body.

“Potter, what—” But clearly his erstwhile nemesis was in no mood to listen, grasping Draco by the shoulders and spinning him around. And just like that, he was panting again, everything inside him trying to find a way to burn through his skin as Potter placed one hot palm between his shoulder blades and shoved Draco up against the wall. Turning his head so as not to get a face-full of musty wallpaper, he blinked in stunned silence.

“As fun as hearing you beg and reducing you to a wanton slag were, Malfoy, you didn’t really think that’d be enough of a gift, did you?” Potter’s voice was at once frighteningly and arousingly steady. Draco heard the distinctive sound of a belt buckle coming undone. A zip.

Merlin’s garters. Potter was going to…fuck him?

Draco squeezed his eyes shut and let slip a small mewl, brought his hands up to claw at his new best friend, the wall, and licked his lips. He wanted it; he knew he did. He’d thought about it all kinds of ways this past week, wanked to dozens, if not hundreds, of images involving himself and the boy behind him.

Memories from Hogwarts cascaded through his brain—Potter humiliating him on the Quidditch field in front of his parents, getting turned into a ferret in his presence, Potter cursing him in a flooded bathroom the year before…how did _this_ image fit? Draco up against a wall with his bare arse sticking out, trousers around his ankles, and Harry Potter getting his cock out and ready to shag him. How was this happening?

Moments passed, yet the only contact Potter made remained the hand on Draco’s back. The blond’s sweaty brow furrowed against the cool wallpaper, and he opened his eyes. By the bed, the Snitches dove and feinted, zooming past the oblivious fairy lights and buzzing their mad chorus. But just above that, Draco could hear the huffing of breath, the slick sound of flesh-on-flesh.

Potter was wanking.

Oh.

 _Oh._

Draco bit his lip and sounded a groan, his insides going liquid. He tilted his head and stared down at the floor, at his fine trousers and less-than-fine socks. Potter’s trainer-clad feet behind.

“Spread yourself,” Potter grit out, voice strained, finally, but still commanding.

“W-what?” Draco honestly didn’t understand. Anything.

“Spread yourself. I want to see. Fuck, I’m close!” The hand on his back pushed harder; Draco’s collarbone was getting sore.

Finally understanding, Draco moved his trembling hands from the security of the wall and reached behind to the cheeks of his arse. Slowly, he spread them, arched his back, presenting himself as fully and lewdly as possible because, shit, he might as well. He might as well be the best gift he could be. A Malfoy excelled at everything.

Potter groaned and dug his bitten nails into Draco’s pale flesh. “Oh God, yes. Fuck. Malfoy…Draco…fuck.” His voice grew higher, breathier, with each word, the slick sounds and panting speeding up, and Draco whimpered in anticipation, swallowed saliva, swallowed more mindless pleas as they attempted to burst from beneath his tongue. He let them run loose in his head instead: _Please, please, please, please…_

And Draco got what he wanted, warm gobs of come spurting onto the small of his back and the swell of his arse as Potter cried out his release, hand fisting against the blond’s skin. It seemed to last forever, and Draco wondered if somehow Potter’d managed to avoid wanking before now, like he was storing it up or something. He felt the viscous fluid trickle hotly down between his still-spread cheeks and involuntarily clenched his hole as some dripped there, tickling the sensitive opening. Moving his hands back to the wall, he shuddered with the aftershocks of what had just happened, what the Wizarding world’s best hope had just done to him, what Draco himself had done at his impassioned demand.

“Mmm,” Potter sighed behind him, and Draco felt a sweaty forehead rest against his shoulder, the hand on his back sliding around front to his chest where the other soon joined, palms flat, warm, and still in contrast to the heart thundering beneath. Soft flannel brushed the skin of his back, the occasional button sliding and pressing its small pattern minutely into Draco’s flesh. A few arm lengths away, the Snitches murmured, lazily flitting among the small branches. Fairy lights shone in the lenses of Potter’s discarded glasses.

They stayed that way for several long, breath-catching moments, and Draco suspected Potter was gathering himself. Thinking about how not to be awkward. After their last encounter, the Gryffindor had been sheepish, much like when he’d first stepped into the room this afternoon, though Draco hadn’t stuck around to give him a chance to say anything catastrophically unbearable. As soon as he could fasten his trousers and get his jumper on (inside out _and_ backwards, he’d later discover), Draco had bolted (as in, strolled casually from the room, of course), retreating to his quarters where he’d dashed to the bathroom and stared into the mirror, panicked, for about fifteen minutes.

 _I should say something,_ he thought now. _Catch Potter off guard, get on equal footing again. How did he turn things around so quickly?_ Draco almost snorted at the question, given his current position. _I should be snide. Be_ myself. _Be--_

His train of thought was interrupted as Potter withdrew, and he heard the sounds of zip and belt. _Right, then. Can’t gain ground when one is naked._ Draco bent to pull up his trousers and pants, but before he could get them past mid-thigh, the prat was manhandling him again, turning him round and coming in for a kiss like he _owned_ him or some bloody thing. Opening his mouth, he was sure, to issue a scathing, soul and ego-crushing dismissal, Draco found himself accidentally snogging the git back, Potter’s tongue slipping in to rhythmically stroke his own, thumbs tracing his jaw line, fingers finding notches in the vertebrae at the back of his neck.

A small voice in Draco’s head noted that this was the very tongue that had quite recently licked his prick, the very mouth that had swallowed (most of) his spunk. As if to solidify the connection, Draco felt some of Potter’s come trickle along the inside of his thigh and, against his disappointingly weak will, he whimpered into the other boy’s mouth, bringing the arm not clutching his trousers up to wrap tightly around his waist. Potter responded in kind, arms coming down to encircle his shoulders, tongue swiping tantalizingly at the soft, slippery underside of the blond’s. Draco’s cock stirred and he flexed his hips, bare flesh rubbing against denim, but before he could get anywhere, Potter was pulling away, stepping back, turning around and leaving him dumbfounded and indignant.

 _Again_ Potter had made him forget himself, rendering him a complacent, mewling little sex-starved _kitten,_ for Merlin’s sake! It was humiliating! Right?

As Draco mutely fumed, confused but decidedly angry, Potter fetched his glasses from the bed and put them on, becoming once again the heroic Scarhead everyone knew and loved and hoped would save their Muggle-loving arses. Somehow seeing Potter as he usually was brought Draco to his senses enough to realize his own trousers and pants still hung at his thighs, gripped in one hand. Flushing, he yanked them up, fastening fly and belt and looking around for his wand so he could cast a cleaning charm and stop thinking about the semen likely drying on his skin.

“Here,” Potter offered helpfully, retrieving Draco’s wand from the small table beside the bed where the miniature tree stood. Draco grabbed the wand a little more forcefully than necessary and cast the charm, noting Potter’s blush as he did so.

 _How can he do such filthy things to me and then look so_ innocent?

Perhaps to hide his embarrassment (or to just be his normal, irritatingly intrepid self), Potter picked up Draco’s jumper from the floor where he had haphazardly tossed it earlier and held it out for him. Draco took it, without undue force this time, the Gryffindor’s returning shyness enough to defuse the blond’s temper. He pulled the shirt over his head, brushing some stray threads off and smoothing his hair back.

“You should try fixing your hair. It looks like, well, like someone’s been clutching at it in sexual ecstasy,” he smirked.

Potter’s hands went to his hair and began combing through it. “Erm, I’m not sure there’s much I can do. It doesn’t really…behave.”

“True, it’s not like you’re Mr. Well-Groomed. Still,” Draco came forward into Potter’s personal space, “it’s a little more bedheaded than usual, even.” He ran his fingers through the thick, rebellious locks, patting, tugging, smoothing. Finally, Potter was presentable, which was to say he looked like he normally did.

Glancing at the famous scar, Draco made to step away, but Potter took his forearms in his hands, thumbs wrapping around to press at the pulse points in his wrists. Arching a brow, Draco met the other boy’s earnest gaze, eyes still startlingly green even behind glasses.

“We’re having a wizard chess tournament downstairs later. I heard you bragging to Ron that you were good, so come down and play. Be social. No more isolating yourself. No more avoiding me.” Releasing Draco’s arms, Potter withdrew his wand, removed the silencing and locking charms, tucked it away, and left, closing the door behind him.

The nerve, _ordering_ him to be social, of all things. In Slytherin House, it wasn’t a party until Draco arrived. Before sixth year anyway. But this wasn’t Hogwarts. And it _definitely_ wasn’t Slytherin territory, despite the portrait of some decrepit old relative of his screaming her head off about blood-traitors in her home.

A trilling from beside the bed caught his attention, and Draco stalked over to the Transfigured, miniature Christmas tree and stared down at it petulantly. The Snitches were, as usual, zipping this way and that, the fairly lights floating noncommittally in their midst, star at the top glowing softly. Draco crossed his arms, frowning, and looked around. Finding what he was searching for, he _Accio’d_ a threadbare blanket from a chair in the opposite corner of the room, unfolded it, and draped it over Potter’s gift to him. With one hand he picked the thing up at the base, and with the other, opened the doors to the wardrobe standing across from the bathroom. He set the tree down inside and shoved it gently to the back with one foot before shutting the doors again. Listening closely, he sighed in relief. _Good. Not a sound._

But it felt wrong, the total silence. The stillness.

Draco turned back to the wardrobe, opened it, uncovered the tree, caught one of the tiny Snitches in his hand, replaced the blanket, shut the wardrobe. He studied the little golden ball he now held clasped between thumb and forefinger, its wings even more delicate and feather-like than a full-sized Snitch’s, its whirr higher pitched, sweeter.

Rifling through the bedside table drawer, Draco found the small pouch he’d always kept on hand for potions ingredients. Made of expensive dragon-hide and given to him by his mother for his fourteenth birthday, it was water-proof, everything-proof. He tucked the Snitch inside and tightened the pouch’s strings before shoving it in his pocket.

Snitch fluttering faintly against his thigh, Draco headed downstairs to be social.


End file.
